


Imperfect

by Skyriazeth



Series: Undertale Prompts and Drabbles [7]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 20:42:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8116906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyriazeth/pseuds/Skyriazeth
Summary: He's alone now, and he needs to make one last decision.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a thing--
> 
> Oh yes and I'm currently on hiatus, so I hope you guys don't mind me holding off some work!  
> I got inspired to do this, so I guess you can have it--

 

* * *

 

It’s so quiet now. Snow covers the golden blooms that used to blossom all over the throne room. Sunshine no longer filters through the vines that have woven their way across the ceiling. Instead, white falls, and it’s cold. The only traces of life that had been here were the subtle footprints left behind. The silent is extremely deafening, and all he can hear is the chatter of his teeth. He hugs himself tighter at the thought of how sudden everything had changed, the frost softly landing on his head, as if reassuring that the worst is over. But all he felt was a stinging absence and longing, the cold slowly enveloping his shivering body as he stood practically frozen in the middle of the room.

A lone, red rose had grown where the warrior had fallen. The peak of red was a stark contrast to the white and golden of where he stood. He smiles. Even after death, **he** still persists as something so beautiful. He walks closer to where the delicate flower grows, freezing hands shoved into his pockets. The faint light that manages to shine through the falling snow is the only thing lighting up the room now, so he lets scarlet dance from his fingertips to make it brighter, but not by much.

Despite the falling snow, the rose appears to be still growing, becoming ever more elegant each time he pays his visit. It’s the third day since then. He laughs bitterly at the sight, surrounded by already wilting buttercups. He knew **he** had always been strong—very strong. Stronger than the king himself. **He** would withstand anything that was thrown in his way, not once letting his resolve waver.

 Yet…

Why was **his** dust drifting in the wind that blew throughout the castle?

He knows the answer, but the more he stares at the rose, the less he’s willing to accept that **he’s** gone— _because **he** can’t be gone, he never wanted for everything to end like this, and the worst part was that he didn’t even try to do anything when he could have._

_It was his fault._

Snow isn’t the only thing that’s falling now. His tears join the sleet that blanketed the marble floor, furiously flowing as he tries to choke back the pained sobs. He feels his soul on the edge from breaking—shattering into pieces and finally ending his misery. He can’t though. He has to keep living on, for **his** sake. He forces a pitiful grin, laced with evident sorrow while trying to gather his composure. It’s not easy, but he manages.

The warmth of his breath escapes into the icy air, the figure pacing closer and closer to the red flower until he comes to a halt right in front of it. The crimson sparks on his hands had grown brighter, and he sees **his** dust that the rose is being cultivated in. He’s unsure how to feel about this still, but at this point, it hardly matters anymore. He thinks for a moment before he cautiously picks the flower, careful to not damage it. He winces when the thorns prick his fingers and marrow seeps out from the wound, but he’s more than happy to shed his blood for **him**.

_It’s the only thing he can do after all **he’s** done for him._

He holds the rose in his hands, and he hears silent whispers from the depths of his memories, he’s sure of it. More red is added to the room, blood dripping and staining the pure white snow. It hurts, but he has to endure it. He always has to. With the flower in hand, he starts to make his way to the _exit._ It’s blindingly bright and warm as he draws nearer, and he’s not sure what to expect. A trail of red is what he sees in the path that lies ahead. It’s thread, and in the exact color of the piece of cloth that he adorns on his neck. He hesitates when he’s at the very end, so close to freedom. The small figure, no longer shaking, turns his back to take in the whole image one more time. It’s odd that the room is still so dimly lit despite the white behind him.

Another smile makes its way onto his mouth. Life had move on, and what he’s seeing is the shell of its reborn being, gradually fading into time.

Without another thought, he steps into the light, and the world he knew crumbles, and it’s fine.

He follows the red that was laid, because he _trusts **him.**_ _He always knows what’s best._

While he wanders, he doesn’t notice it, but the petals of the rose start to drop onto the floor. Although when he does realize it, there were barely any petals left—no longer a flower you’d call a rose. He keeps the indifferent look on his face as embers fly, and the rose simply disperses, red magic guided by some unknown force as it descends up, and up, and up.

“Imperfect.” He closes his eyes to recollect himself, speaking for the first time since he came.

“Just like you and me~” he hums it into a tune and continues on his journey, feeling as if he had finally come in terms with that he had been running from.

 

 

_“Imperfect, just like you and me~”_

 

 

 


End file.
